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“Henry still comes here sometimes. Should we leave everything here, in case he needs it?”

I try to think. “Did Henry ever mention arriving here and finding someone else’s stuff in his room?”

“No,” says Kimy.

“Then you should do whatever you want. Either you leave it alone and maybe Henry will still come, or you rent it to someone else and Henry doesn’t need it anymore.”

“Huh,” she says.

“We don’t have to decide for a while yet,” I say. “I’ll pay the rent until you figure it out.”

“I thought I would go first,” Kimy says. “I’m eighteen years older than Richard, no way he would go first.”

“You sound disappointed,” I say.

“I am,” says Kimy. “I want all my friends to outlive me, who wants to have a lonely funeral?”

“You’re too healthy, you’ll outlast us all.”

Kimy shakes her head. “That would be terrible. Maybe I better eat some McDonald’s.”

“Here, have a muffin.”

She sighs and slices a tiny piece off the grotesquely large muffin, pops it in her mouth. “I will miss Richard. He was here fifty years. He was a little crazy sometimes but he was a good guy.”

“Yeah,” I say. “He was.”

“I don’t like to think of anyone else being here.”

“I know.”

Richard’s stuff seems different without him. His absence is unnerving, as though he’s about to walk in and catch us eating his muffins, uninvited. Then I realize that the task of sorting through his belongings will fall to me. I have left everything of Henry’s undisturbed; even his suits and jeans and underwear are all in their drawers and on their hangers after six years because I haven’t been able to face clearing them out.

Richard and I had an affectionate but formal relationship. We were fond of each other, but didn’t share secrets. I hope there are no letters or diaries. I hope I won’t have to know anything he wouldn’t have told me. He could be snappish, cold, skeptical. But oh, how I long to see him again, even for just a minute or two.

Annette is buried in Graceland Cemetery under a double-wide granite stone with Richard’s name already carved next to hers. Now his blank dates will be filled in.

Alba crosses the hall and heads toward the living room. “In here, sweetie,” I call. She pads over to me and leans on me, drapes her arms around my shoulders.

“I’m sorry you had to find him,” I say. “Was it bad?”

“Kind of. Not as bad as Daddy.”

“Nothing is as bad as that.”

“Okay,” Alba says, and then bursts into tears. I kiss her shoulder, and as I turn my head I see Kimy wipe a tear from the corner of her eye. I say, “Go and let Kimy give you a hug.” Alba blindly walks to Kimy, who folds Alba into her arms. Alba is shaking with crying; Kimy silently rocks her until finally Alba straightens up. Kimy offers her a handkerchief, Alba blows her nose and they both turn to me with the unspoken question: What now?

Friday, December 3, 1982 (Alba is 11, Henry is 41)

Henry: I’m riding the Ravenswood El with Alba. It’s been snowing all evening and we are afraid to leave this warm, otherwise empty train car—I have given her my coat and socks, but she doesn’t have shoes. I found her following me, half a block behind me on Belmont; she wasn’t sure if I would know her. The El was the closest warm place, and here we are, hours later, almost at Kimball again, the end of the line. It’s a little past 2 a.m. The conductor has allowed us to linger, but I wonder how many more times she will ignore us. Maybe till the morning rush.

“Tell me a story,” Alba says, “about when I was little.”

“I’m kinda running low on those,” I say. “In my present, you’re only three. Will you settle for a story about me, when I was little?” She nods. “Okay. So, you know how I like to read? A lot?” Alba smiles. It might be the first smile I’ve elicited from her all night. She’s been in a quiet mood. “When I was little, I loved the idea of flying. Anything that could fly, I was in love with it. You know that huge sycamore tree in the backyard, in Kimy’s garden?” Alba nods. “I used to like to watch the birds sitting in it. When I was five, I climbed out of my bedroom window, onto the roof and into that tree. And because I was little, I managed to get even higher up into the tree, really high. I could see over the top of our roof. I could see downtown. It was early, and my parents were asleep. I’d brought a book with me, and when they woke up and finally came outside, looking for me, I was sitting in the tree, reading. My dad asked me how I’d gotten up there, and how did I think I was going to get down? Of course, I told them that I was going to fly down.”

“Oh, no,” Alba says. We are sitting at the Kimball station now with the doors open; cold air fills the car. I put my arm around Alba to warm her.

“Yeah, that’s what Mom and Dad said. But here’s the amazing part. My dad was acrophobic—totally terrified of heights. But he climbed up there and got me down. I have no idea how he did it. I sometimes stand in Kimy’s garden and look at that tree—I can’t see how it would have supported his weight, and he must have been so frightened. Now that I’m a dad, I can imagine that if I needed to rescue you, I would do whatever crazy thing I had to do because, you know, kids can’t fly.” I realize that Alba is crying. “Hey. Hey, Alba, what’s wrong?” I don’t have any Kleenex, so I offer her my T-shirt.